The Lonely Trees

En route to Bogmalo, there's a tree in a meadow. Or a field, I'm not sure if "meadow" is tm-ed by Wordsworth and his naturalist ilk. It's a lonely tree, with tattered remains of things flung there by urchins, lovers and old maids - the trifecta of ceremonial littering - hanging down on it.

At Bogmalo, on a rocky outcrop to the North, below the navy base, there's another lonely tree - a palm, it's fronds fluttering in the August torrents, or drooping in the dead heat of April.

Back when campus life was still young, and we were infinitely more stupid and less snobbish, there was a lonely tree in the ground that now sports a sub-standard cricket field. It was surrounded by a field of sun-blanched grass that swayed with every gust of wind. They cut it down - and burned the grass, to boot - so the land could sport, as noted, a sub-standard cricket field.

The owners of this blog, their once and future friends, and no doubt many others, have spent at least a moment reflecting on at least one of those trees. And now, when I think of Goa, of BITS, of the corridor, the images of tattered shoes on blackened boughs, fronds tossing and turning in the breeze, rippling yellow fields of grass, always spring to mind. It's some sort of indefinable parody of the maudlin lives we've led for the past three years, but I can't imagine how.

I'm going right back to Goa, touching down on the 4th of next year. The trees will be waiting - the two that survive, at least. So will all of Goa, but it'll never be the same, will it?
I don't know why I wrote this, but it makes me sad. And nostalgic, which is just "sad" tarted up with memories and rouge. And a little bit hopeful - if the past held this much promise, who's to say the future is bleak?

I'll Get By...

There’s this sudden urge to hurt someone. Not physically, no; but to rip apart into shreds a relationship that has lasted this long and make someone actually feel what they’re talking about. All this talk there is of goodbyes, farewells and whatnots; how they’ll miss you for an eternity and are sad to let you go. Bullshit.

Two days. That’s the amount of time it’ll take to leave you go. Because every change is something new, for you and for them. And so, while they may be sad and may even cry tonight, the weather tomorrow morning will be beautiful and, try as they might, they’ll feel better. Reminiscence is too forced to last before the sheer beauty of a sweet surrender. The day after that, life will move on, as it should; and your name shall be remembered in loving memory for five minutes at a time in increasing intervals. A text message sent, no replies received; on to the next pastime. Once a week, then a month, then every Birthday.

And thus my urge to grab someone, scream at them, shake them senseless, say things that I know will hurt them for decades to come, and leave them with just one certainty: they’re glad I’m leaving, because they’d never like to see my face again. Then maybe they’ll feel the bile rise up every single time they think of me, and know what it is to remember someone. Maybe Sartre will be easier to understand after that.

I don’t mean anyone particular I’m targeting when I say this. I don’t even have a list of possible people in mind. I say this to everyone I know in this place: “I love you, and I know you mean well, but stop saying it’ll be difficult to move on. I know it won’t.”

Honestly, I don’t know if this is true. I don’t even know what to do now that I’ve written this down. But maybe, maybe, now I’ll be able to sleep at night, and not have every single day of the last three and a half years I spent here passing through my head before I wake up.